


Smoke

by PrioritiesSorted



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, F/F, F/M, Mother-Daughter Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-09
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-05-05 21:21:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5390879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrioritiesSorted/pseuds/PrioritiesSorted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cersei had woken from nightmares in which her children had discovered their true parentage, had reviled her, their beautiful faces twisted with disgust. She pulled away to search Myrcella’s face, but there was no hatred there, only fear and something that Cersei could not place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smoke

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Potoo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Potoo/gifts).



> Thanks to Potoo for giving a prompt that really challenged me - I've never written Cersei POV before, and it was a very interesting exercise!

 

  
The smoke of the city was suffocating. The smoke in her lungs burned. The smoke was slithering under her skin and making her veins black with soot. The world might have been shining, lit up with bright bulbs and glittering wealth, but underneath it was filthy; grease sliding off the skin of fat businessmen bulging out of pinstripes; lipstick staining teeth and collars and cocks alike; and smoke, always smoke, creeping into the crevices and leaving its black smudges all over her house, her clothes, her body.

 

Some nights she couldn’t bear it, and Cersei found herself scrubbing her skin red-raw, trying to wash the dirt from her skin, but everything she touched was coated in it. Her silk sheets, when she slid between them, were slimy with oil, clogging her pores. Only his hands could wash away the clinging muck. They burned across her body, cleansing her even as beads of sweat gathered and rolled down her back, her hair sticking to the sheen on her face.

 

Cersei liked her hair this way: the cut emphasised the sharp lines of her features, making her look feline, dangerous. It reminded her, too, how alike they truly were. Even in the dark she could feel it, running her hands through the short strands and pretending they were his.

 

She could never pretend with Robert. His hands had been too big, too meaty, grabbing at her as though she were nothing more than a doll for him to position as he pleased. He had hated it when she cut her hair, complained there was nothing to grab on her anymore. She liked it all the more for that. Still, it was not enough to deter him from claiming his marital rights when he was too drunk to go out and find a willing whore. She scrubbed her skin extra hard on those nights, slipping out of bed to order a bath as hot as was safe.

 

Father had given her a gun not long ago.  _For protection,_  he’d said. It was a tiny thing, able to slip into her purse, with a pearl handle and a barrel so slim she wondered if she could ever really do any damage with it. But Jaime’s gun was heavy in her hands, significant as it fit into her palm, and she could feel the power surge up inside her even as she aimed at nothing. She never got the chance to point it at Robert, in the end. Poison was much less noticeable, especially when Robert had done most of the work himself: all Cersei had to do was make sure he kept drinking, and roll him onto his back once he lost consciousness. The headlines that followed hadn’t been ideal, but “Oil Baron Dead of Demon Drink” was still better than “Oil Baron Shot by Wife”.

 

Her grief at his death might have been for the cameras alone, but her anger at her brothers was not. It was one thing for Tyrion to set himself up as a bootlegger, they’d never wanted him in the company anyway, but it was quite another for him to steal Jaime just weeks after Robert’s tragic accident. Jaime might have at least  _pretended_  to be upset at his good-brother’s death. He might at least have  _told_  her he was leaving the company. He might at least have asked her opinion. But then, they both knew what she would have said, they both knew the words that would have been exchanged, and for all his bravado, Jaime had always been a coward when it came to the important things. Too afraid to rise within the company, too afraid to take responsibility for their family, to prepare for a time when their father was no longer there to lead them through it.

 

There had been nothing but silence from him for a full month, and Cersei had been turning on a knife’s edge when the simple card was left for her. It promised a visit in two days time, and Cersei had ripped the card to pieces and sworn she wouldn’t see him.

 

She waited for him in the sitting room, as if this was a casual call, as if she was not trembling all over with rage and desire. He hadn’t said goodbye, only left, disappearing into the smog as if he had no reason to look back.

 

When the butler ushered him in, it was as if nothing had occurred: his suit still pressed and clean, silver cigarette case poking out of his waistcoat pocket. He still stood straight and tall, and she still wanted to drag him down onto the couch with her, hating herself for it, for that weakness.

 

“So, you finally decided to show your face, then?”

 

“Don’t be dramatic, Cersei. I left the company, that is all.”

 

_That is all,_  he said, as if their father hadn’t been fuming with rage every day since, as if Cersei hadn’t begged him not to. She had  _begged_  him, and still he had gone, still he had left her,

 

“And took up with our demon of a brother, smuggling liquor through the sewers and into the city like a common criminal.”

 

Jaime let out a harsh laugh,

 

“I can promise you, Cersei, oil barons are no less criminals then bootleggers. In fact, I feel much less like a criminal now than I ever have before. Besides, I wouldn’t have thought you’d be one to complain.” He nodded to the glass of scotch in her hand, and Cersei set it down on the table between them.

 

“So you think you’re playing the hero here? Brave Jaime Lannister bringing booze to the people, fighting against the unjust government,” she scoffed. “You’re so predictable.”

 

“Am I? So you weren’t surprised when I left?”

 

“I’m not surprised you’re back.”

 

“I’m not back, not really. I only wanted to see you.” She knew it was the truth, and she hated him for it.

 

“Perhaps I don’t want to see you.”

 

“If that were the case you wouldn’t have let me in. You’ve missed me.”

 

“Of course I’ve missed you. You have been gone for months with no word of a goodbye, and now you wander back in here with no apologies and you expect me to just open my legs for you? I know you can be stupid, Jaime, but really you should have known better.”

 

Cersei turned away from him, moving to pour herself another measure of whiskey, but then Jaime’s hands were on her waist, spinning her around to pull her against him. She could feel the burning heat of his palms through her dress, and she wanted to tear at his hair, to dig her nails into his skin, to kiss him.

 

She struggled against his grip, feeling his fingers digging into her flesh, probably leaving bruises. Cersei would cover the places with her own fingers, later, pressing so the bruises stayed livid on her skin, a reminder of his touch. She writhed in his arms, pulling herself closer as she continued the pretense of resistance. Jaime only laughed and pulled her flush against him.

 

“Tell me to go, and I’ll go,” he breathed against the skin of her neck, leaving a light kiss there.

 

Cersei did not reply, but reached up to slide her fingers into his hair, gripping it hard and pulling his mouth back to hers. With her other hand twisted into the material of his shirt, Jaime loosened his grip on her waist so he could pull up her dress and slip a hand between her thighs.

 

Her gasp of pleasure was muffled, but it was enough to cover the gasp of shock from the slight figure in the doorway.

 

* * *

 

“Mother, I need to speak with you.”

 

Myrcella stood tall in the doorway, but her hands shook almost imperceptibly. She seemed almost unable to look at Cersei, though she tried to keep her head up, staring her mother down. A thrill of fear shot through Cersei, and she crossed the room to embrace her daughter. Myrcella allowed it, but her shaking hands stayed firmly by her sides.

 

“What is it, my darling?” Cersei whispered, “Are you-”

 

“Is Uncle Jaime my father?”

 

Her breath caught in her throat. Cersei had woken from nightmares in which her children had discovered their true parentage, had reviled her, their beautiful faces twisted with disgust. She pulled away to search Myrcella’s face, but there was no hatred there, only fear and something that Cersei could not place. But she could not show her fear now, and she cupped Myrcella’s cheeks in her hands, frowning,

 

“What lies have they been telling you, my love? My clever girl, I know you would not believe what our enemies-”

 

“Don’t try to deny you’re… I saw you.” Myrcella insisted, her voice gaining strength with every word. “Together. I saw you so you’ve not got anything to hide, but I need to know.”

 

“You saw us together? What did you see?” Cersei drew back, hoping her daughter would not notice the paleness of her face, the frantic beat of her heart, “I know it’s vulgar, but at your age anything can look-”

 

“I saw you in this room. I saw you kiss him. I saw his hand go up under your dress. I know what that was, and I am not so easily manipulated. I just want to know if he is my father.”

 

Nothing made sense. Everything she had ever feared was coming to fruition, and yet it was so different from how she imagined it. She had imagined Myrcella pushing her away, screaming, calling her names. She had not imagine this cool, calm woman standing before her, daring her to deny the secret she had held deep within her since she was nine years old.

 

“Please, just say it’s him.”

 

“Why-”

 

“I’m asking the questions here, mother.” Myrcella’s tone brooked no argument, and Cersei felt an odd surge of pride go through her.

 

Cersei opened her mouth to argue, but found no words sufficient to explain herself to her daughter. She had endured years of her father’s condescension, her brother’s ire, her husband’s rage, but none of those men had ever made her quail before them as her daughter did.

 

“Don’t tell your brothers,” was all she could say, sinking back down into her seat and taking a long sip of the scotch on the table.

Myrcella scoffed,

“As if I would.”

 

“Then what will you do?”

 

Myrcella hesitated, seeming unsure for the first time since she stepped into the room.

 

“I- there was a reason I wanted to know, beyond simply my own satisfaction, but your secret is safe with me, I promise. I do not desire our family’s ruin.”

 

“Just mine.”

 

“No.” Myrcella’s response was immediate and firm, and it shocked Cersei more than anything that had been said that afternoon, “You are my mother and I love you. This is… difficult for me but I understand, or at least-” she cut herself off, taking a breath before she said, “We do not get to choose who we love.”

 

* * *

 

Cersei stood at the crack in the door, holding her breath, and for a moment she felt absurdly like a child, crouching with Jaime in the doorways at her father’s business parties. When they were inevitably caught, it was always she who was carted off to bed, while Jaime was allowed to stay up. She was always waiting for him when he got to bed, though, pinching him until he told her more than, “it was boring, Cersei, I want to go to sleep.”

 

Now it was her child, rather than her parents, on whom she was spying, and the nervous pounding of her heart was no longer excited. She knew Myrcella would not betray her, would not betray her own mother, but she had once thought Myrcella was still a girl.  _There was a reason I wanted to know._ Myrcella’s words stuck in her head like a record, and it seemed she was not the only one with secrets.

 

Cersei’s ear could pick up a whisper with practised ease, and her daughter’s voice was familiar even when it was barely there. She knew the other voice, too, but she could not place it; soft and low and measured, despite the intensity of the moment.

 

“You shouldn’t have asked me here.”

 

“It’s all right. It’s all right, I promise.” The command in Myrcella’s voice was gentle, and Cersei wondered whether it had been there all along, or if she had simply failed to see it before now.

 

“How can it be, Cella? Even if we weren’t both women-”

 

“That doesn’t matter.”

 

“I know that, I know, but we’re still-”

 

“No we’re not.” Cersei could hear the smile in Myrcella’s voice, the slight tremor of excitement colouring it the same shade as it was on the morning of her name day.

 

“What?” The question was barely there, a breath more than a word, fragile with hope and confusion.

 

“Robert Baratheon is not my father. I saw my mother with- with someone else. I confronted her about and she says… she says he’s my father.”

 

“Seven Hells. Are you alright?”

 

“Of course I am. Of course.”

 

“I know when you’re lying, Cella.”

 

There was a pause, pregnant and deep, and Cersei hardly dared breathe.

 

“I’m not- it’s difficult. It’s difficult but I don’t care. I don’t care because I love you and this means… it means we can be together, yes?” Myrcella’s voice shook, and Cersei shifted to peer into the room through the crack, to see Myrcella’s back, and a pair of slender arms twining themselves around her, running thin fingers up and down her spine.

 

“It’s not that simple, you know it isn’t.”

 

“Of course, of course it’s not that simple but I just… I want to find something good in this.”

 

“Gods, Cella, I’m sorry. You’re right. There is something good in this, and it isn’t insignificant.”

 

“Will you kiss me, then? Now we know-”

 

The rest of the sentence was lost. The hands that had been resting on Myrcella’s waist came up to tangle in her hair, heedless of the time it had taken to set that morning. Myrcella shifted to pull the other figure closer, and any doubt Cersei had about her identity fell away when Myrcella breathed,

 

_“Shireen.”_

 

* * *

 

Later, it was Cersei who stood on the threshold of Myrcella’s bedroom, Cersei with the questions and the accusations and the power. She didn’t waste her breath on platitudes and sweetness, this time.

 

“Really, Myrcella, if you’re going to fuck women, you might have chosen someone prettier.”

 

She chose the words to shock, and though Myrcella tensed where she sat, her reply was a steady as ever:

 

“Have you been spying on me, mother?”

 

It was maddening.

 

“You told her.”

 

“I didn’t. Not all of it, at least.” Her daughter at least had the grace to look at her then. Her gaze still so steady, as if nothing could daunt her. Cersei remembered Myrcella waking from nightmares when she was still but knee high; even then she had been quick to calm, once she learned the danger was not real. Cersei should have known then, even as she ran her fingers through baby-soft curls, that she was raising a soldier of a daughter.

 

She could never have known that one day she would be running against the fortress Myrcella had built.

“You think that news of my infidelity won’t reach the press?” Cersei insisted, “Stannis has always hated me.”

 

“Shireen is not her father. I trust her. And even then I didn’t tell her the full truth, even then I tried to protect you-”

 

“Protect me? You were protecting yourself. Were you not worried she would hate you once she found out what you are?”

 

“She would never-”

 

“And yet you didn’t tell her.”

 

For a second, for a fleeting second, Cersei felt her victory. It felt like smoke.

 

“I made you a promise,” Myrcella said eventually, her voice still measured, but consciously so. It wavered. “I promised I would keep your secret and I did. That’s all there is to it.”

 

“Don’t lie to me-”

 

“What do you want from me, mother?” Myrcella cried, and her desperation should have been satisfying, a symbol of their equality, but it only made Cersei feel smaller, weaker. “To tell you I’m ashamed of my parentage, that it disgusts me? You want me to scream and rage and tell you I hate you? I’m not going to. You forget that I- I have struggled with my own feelings. Shireen and I, neither of us wanted this to happen, and we both have struggled with the idea of loving each other in a way that was… not familial. I thought we would have to either give each other up or live the rest of our lives in guilt and shame but you have freed us from that. I cannot pretend that I am not- that I understand what it between you and my- my uncle, but I must be thankful for it, I suppose,” she laughed mirthlessly. “You sin so I don’t have to.”

 

_Sin._  The word sounded warped coming from Myrcella’s lips: it should have been a word reserved for severe septons standing on street corners, shouting about salvation. It had never sounded like reality to Cersei, just an abstract concept dreamt up by the powerful to keep the stupid in line.

 

“It never felt that way to us.” Cersei confessed, sitting tentatively on the side of Myrcella’s bed. Myrcella sat beside her, resting her golden head on Cersei’s shoulder; Cersei reached up to run her fingers through her daughter’s curls, and Myrcella sighed.

 

“I know,” she said. “I try not to think about that."


End file.
